Arse Over Tea Cup
by Esther Ebene
Summary: May 2, 1998. A day so many know. The day the castle was breached. The day when dozens, including Harry, died. Unlike Harry, Fred, like so many others, stayed dead. So now Aunt Muriel's crazy, Mum's inconsolable, Dad's taken to drinking, and me? I standing up here waiting for a bloody Order of Merlin ceremony to begin. Part 1 of "Aw, bloody hell!" Series. Humor and angst.


**Arse Over Tea Cup**

Esther Ebene

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**Warning:** Swearing, _lots_ of swearing, angst, humor. Talk of Fred Weasley's death. This is mainly meant to be amusing, sad but ultimately meant to get a laugh.

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"Announcing the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt!

We're receiving Orders of Merlin today. Psht. It's not like everyone doesn't know I abandoned them for months. I really shouldn't be here. It's not like I deserve this. Fred died. He fought just as much as I did-cuz let's face it, I only fought at Hogwarts-and he didn't get an Order of Merlin posthumously.

Shite. Fred. Bloody hell. When is this—

"Shite," I hissed. Pain was shooting up my arm, through my temple.

Hermione looked over at me in concern, but I waved her off. Damn, my head's pounding. Uhg, I think I'm join to be sick, my sternum is going to explode. _I've dry heaved enough in the past three days, body. I don't need more, thanks._ No. No, I will no be sick, not on stage, not while receiving an award that's made Mum so bloody proud. Mum'll have my head.

Ha!

I quickly stifled a sharp laugh. Merlin, I wish. Mum might've fussed over my robes, crying and smiling simultaneously, but she's absolutely inconsolable these days, going from one extreme to the next.

Someone had apparated into the kitchen while Mum had been making breakfast. She'd jumped, swung around yelling "Fred!" only to break down sobbing when she realized it was Percy. She keeps having—what Hermione calls—these psychosomatic reactions. Her mind and body haven't had the time to adjust to his death. So when she hears apparating in the house, like Fred and George used to do, her first reaction is to yell at at them. Only, Fred's dead. So then, for one perfect moment, she's happy again, happy to be yelling at her trickster of a son only for her to realize that Fred is dead. Yea, it's not going over very well. I mean, it's hard to remember he's dead when I keep expecting to hear an explosion every time I walk upstairs. But again with the psychosomatic reaction.

"You haven't had time to adjust," Hermione would say. "Of course you're going to expect things like that."

Sometimes, I wonder if any of us will, if George will.

Frankly, none of us have been sleeping. No, that's not true. Charlie's been serving Mum tea laced with dreamless sleep potion, and I know Dad's been adding firewhiskey to his. So I guess they've been sleeping, but you wouldn't know it by looking at them. But I know Ginny and I haven't, and George definitely hasn't. I wouldn't be surprised if Percy's been working all through the night, and Bill's got Victoire to distract him so he's doing fairly well. But I know those of us at the Burrow have most definitely not been sleeping. And now I have to stand up here, looking pleased to be getting an Order of Merlin for "services rendered" when _brother is dead._

Apparently, I shouldn't be surprised. Aunt Muriel said it was this way the first time too. "Yelling, shouting. Never ending spectacles of jubilation. Never mind the muggles or the poor souls suffering!" Frankly, everyone's having these 'psychosomatic reactions', including Aunt Muriel. She lost her brother in the last war, and now she's lost a nephew. She isn't handling Fred's death well; drinking, yelling, lighting her curtains on fire.

Aaaand apparently, showing up to this. I share a glance with Harry. _What the hell?_

"We are gathered here today to commemorate three heroes who risked everything for us. They could have—"

No, I'm pretty sure I didn't do this for you, mate, and I definitely didn't do it for them. The bloody vultures, the lot of 'em.

"But they did not give up. They went without food and water, sometimes for days. They've been tortured by enemy hands, they've lost friends and family, and still they fought on. These three, more than anyone, tirelessly worked to defeat Lord Voldemort until Mr. Potter finally triumphed."

Applause.

_Loud_ applause.

Cheering and hollering, hooting and yelling. Clapping, screaming, crying. It seemed like it would never end.

Is this what we have to look forward to? Being gawked at, objectified, rabidy adored? But I didn't even do anything!

"Fuck!" I shriek. Thankfully, the fireworks muffled—wait, is that Daedalus Diggle? _Bloody hell. _It is! Uhg, that idiot. He's still lighting fireworks?! Merlin, he's been brought in by the Ministy _six _times.

Well, at least on a scale of dumb as shit, I'll _never_ reach Daedalus Diggle. Thank Merlin. But really. Is this what I have to look forward to? Jumping at fireworks, thinking they're death eater spells?

_Bloody hell_, is that my Great Aunt Muriel?

Shite! Charlie, Bill, you dumb fucks, what the hell are you two doing standing around like she ain't walking up here, looking like she's got a bone to pick? Oh, bugger—

Ouch. That looked like it hurt.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry and Hermione cried, disarming the aurors trying to get my Aunt off the stage.

"Bloody hell, Aunt Muriel. What the hell are you doing?" I said. "I get that you're upset and that you've been drinking a few too many whiskeys lately, but this is a bit bigger than lighten' your curtains on fire!" I practically yelled. All around me, people were silent. _Well, shite._

"Ronald, if you wish to keep you testicles, you shall remove yourself from my way at once."

_What?_

"Eh?"

"Aunt Muriel!" I heard before I was arse over tea cup, staring at the sky.

_What the fuck?_

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**A/N: This is part 1 of a series of one-shots about Ron Weasley. Some will be humorous, others angsty, but for the most part, I am just trying to get my mind off the original research, primary sources only, stupidly long senior thesis I have to write next semester. I am just going to write one-shots, canon divergence points, self-inserts, and horrible, horrible clichés until I can get back to my epic cliché of massive proportions.**


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